Author's Note: I don't write slash fic. I don't. I've never written anything like this before, so I beg your forgiveness for any awfulness that will inevitably unfold. I just couldn't resist writing this after watching Hounds of Baskerville tonight. Part of me has been a Mystrade shipper for a long time now.

Also, the ending is a copout. I'm sorry. I just don't write sex scenes. At least there's some making out?

I hope that you find it at least halfway decent, and, as always, reviews—both positive and negative—are always welcome.

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"Mycroft!"

Greg Lestrade pounded on the door, fist thudding a little too frantically against solid wood. It only took a few blows for his hand to start aching, but he was far too incensed to care about the pain. Lestrade knew how to keep his composure—most of the time. He wasn't the best cop that ever lived, but he knew how to do his job. He knew how to do what he was told, and that was exactly what he had done. What he was told.

"Mycroft Holmes!"

The pounding continued. His watch had stopped—battery drained—but it had to have been around four o'clock in the morning. He didn't even remember what time the clock in the car had shown when he had sped his way back to London. Under normal circumstances, Lestrade would have been worried about waking up the neighbors. Mycroft was far from normal and he had no neighbors. At least, not at four o'clock in the morning. Very few people would still be in their office at that time, but Mycroft was...singular. Singular. That was the only word that came to mind. Lestrade wasn't a poet, but he had the feeling that, even if he was, he wouldn't be able to find words in the English language that satisfactorily described Mycroft Holmes.

For a moment, he considered kicking the door in, but he knew that an attempt to do so would result in an injured leg and an uninjured door. Solid wood wasn't easy to displace. Frustrated, Lestrade let his hand fall to his side and leaned up against the door, listening for sounds of activity on the other side. Something was still buzzing in his ears—probably a leftover effect from whatever drugs were still in his system—but he could swear that he heard some kind of shuffling.

"I know you're there, Mycroft. Just let me in."

Silence. Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead. Why the Holmes brothers insisted on being so bloody infuriating, he really didn't know. He would never know. Nobody would ever know. They were the primary source of stress in his life, and he wondered how relaxed he would be without them. Pretty damn relaxed, if his holiday had been any indication. Things had been going so well.

"I'm not leaving." Silence, still. Even though he knew that it wouldn't make any difference, he raised his voice. "I can stay here all night. Hard to sleep when you're strung-out, you know."

Before he could process what was happening, the solid wood barricade was gone. It swung inward without any warning and Lestrade stumbled half-forward, half-sideways, disoriented and graceless. One hand, placed strategically on his right shoulder, was all that it took to guide him back to a stable standing position. An even angrier Lestrade looked up at a thoroughly impassive Mycroft. As soon as he was standing on his own, Lestrade brushed away the other man's hand and moved past him.

"By all means, do come in."

Mycroft's dry tone only served to infuriate Lestrade even further. He turned on his heel, not intimidated in the least by the taller man. "You knew, didn't you? You knew! There is no way that you didn't know." He was shaking, but he wasn't certain if the tremors were from his temper or from the drugs. "You know everything, right?" Mycroft didn't answer, lips set into a thin line. "Right?"

"Inspector Lestrade..." Mycroft shut the door slowly, meeting Lestrade's accusatory glare with the same prim, proper calmness that he always exhibited. "I can assure you that I was unaware of the possibility that your life would be threatened in any way."

"Bullshit! You're Mycroft bloody Holmes! It's your job to know these things!"

"Inspector Lestrade—"

"No." Lestrade shook his head—half in exasperation and half in mild disbelief. "No, I'm not buying it. Any of this. You know, if you had just told me, it wouldn't be so bad. I put my life on the line every day. Every bloody day, Mycroft. It's my job. But this—" He broke off for a second, a lump rising in his throat, inexplicably. Mycroft wasn't moving; he was barely blinking. "This wasn't an order. It was a request. From you. And I agreed to help, as a favor. I was just supposed to keep an eye on Sherlock to make sure that he didn't cause you any problems. Because your job is so much more important than mine. More important than me, apparently."

"That's not true."

If Lestrade had been paying more attention, he might have seen the briefest flicker of concern in Myrcroft's expression, but he was practically seeing red. In all honesty, he didn't know why he was so angry. Had he thought for a moment—had he not been so fuzzy—he might have accepted that Mycroft hadn't had any reason to believe that anyone was in any mortal danger. Somehow, though, just the thought of Mycroft sending him into a minefield—literally—and not caring about whether or not he came back was enough to send him over the edge.

"Of course it is," he spat. "You just sit there behind your giant desk with your expensive, perfectly pressed suits, sending out orders to people, treating them like...like pawns. Like puppets, and all you have to do is pull the strings, isn't it? It's like you're made of ice." Lestrade swayed slightly on his feet but had enough balance to step back when Mycroft offered a helping hand. "Even Sherlock has the humanity to care just a little."

Lestrade expected to see some kind of reaction to that statement. Some hurt. Something. But Mycroft was as stony as ever. By that point, he couldn't really get any angrier at the man whose orders he had always followed unquestioningly. The man with whom he had been convinced that he had built up a certain rapport—a mutual respect. Lestrade didn't understand why he was so hurt. He needed Mycroft to feel what he was feeling. He needed to know why Mycroft didn't respect him enough to be honest with him. He needed to know why Mycroft didn't care.

"You're right." Mycroft's words stopped Lestrade short. "I knew about Baskerville. I knew about the minefields. I even knew about H.O.U.N.D."

Mouth gaping, Lestrade sputtered. Part of him had continued to hope that Mycroft had been ignorant—that, somehow, he hadn't known. Either way, he hadn't expected the older Holmes to admit anything. "You...you knew. Why didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft shrugged in a manner that was a little bit too nonchalant. "I wasn't at liberty to divulge that information."

"You..." Drugs inhibiting his decision-making abilities, or so he liked to think, Lestrade grabbed the lapels of Mycroft's infuriatingly perfect suit jacket and roughly shoved him back against the wall. "Is this a game to you?" When Mycroft didn't respond immediately, Lestrade shook him, unable to keep an edge of panic out of his voice. "Is it?"

A few more moments of silence passed, then Mycroft sighed. He didn't attempt to push Lestrade back. He didn't attempt to move at all. All that he did was look the detective in the eyes—steady, unyielding, yet with a softness that Lestrade had never felt from him before. "None of this is a game to me. None of this has ever been a game to me."

Suddenly, Lestrade was unsure as to what, exactly, they were talking about. He was confused. He didn't know what he was saying or doing and he knew even less about what he was feeling. What he did know was that the new-suit smell—along with the unmistakable scents of cedar and shoe-polish—was making him dizzy. For some strange reason, he didn't mind it. He also didn't mind the proximity to the older Holmes, and it didn't seem that Mycroft minded it, either. Maybe he did, but he didn't try to get away. Lestrade didn't know what to do next. Anger and aggression were driving him, but there was something else there, too—something that he didn't really notice until he jerked Mycroft forward and kissed him.

Kissed him. Kissed Mycroft. Lestrade was straight. He was married. Yes, his wife had cheated on him countless times, but he had never so much as thought about seeking comfort in the arms of a man. But...it was Mycroft. It was just Mycroft. Mycroft, who never showed an ounce of care for anyone other than his younger brother. Mycroft, who expressed nothing but disdain for humankind, on a whole. Mycroft, who had never exhibited an ounce of interest—romantic or otherwise—in anyone.

Mycroft, who was kissing him back. Lestrade was buzzing with so many emotions that he only felt a faint pang of shock. Fueled by what seemed, at the very least, like acceptance, he shoved the other man back against the wall, letting go of his lapels only to grasp the back of his head, possibly yanking a little bit too roughly but not caring. Mycroft was pliable, following wherever Lestrade led, and as pleasing as the contact was, Lestrade couldn't help but be irritated by his passiveness.

With a low, throaty growl, Lestrade pulled back, letting his teeth scrape against Mycroft's bottom lip. Almost involuntarily, his lips continued to move, traveling from the corner of Mycroft's lips to trail down his neck. When kisses didn't elicit the response that he desired, Lestrade began to use his teeth. One particularly forceful bite at the nape of his neck drew a moan from Mycroft that had to be louder than he had intended it to be. Lips once again near Mycroft's jawline, Lestrade could feel his pulse and was almost flattered by how quickly his heart was beating. Far too quickly to be proper.

"Greg," Mycroft breathed. "I—"

"Shut up," Lestrade mumbled before pressing his lips against Mycroft's again. Mycroft didn't stand for that, however, and Lestrade almost had the wind knocked out of him as the other man spun him around and pushed him into the wall, in turn.

"Listen." Mycroft didn't give Lestrade much of a choice, as he had the detective's arms pinned on either side of his head. His strength was impressive; Lestrade found himself wondering about how he looked underneath that damnable suit. "I should have told you about Baskerville. I didn't send you to hurt you. I sent you because you're the only person that I trusted. That I trust."

Without even realizing it, Lestrade had let go of the anger. Part of him—the part of him that trusted Mycroft, that had always trusted Mycroft—had known it all along. That's why he had been more than happy to go to Dartmoor on nothing more than a word from the older Holmes. That's why, when part of him had felt betrayed, he had been so confused. That's why he had felt the need to confront Mycroft. Actually hearing the words made everything worthwhile.

"Mycroft."

"Yes?"

Lestrade ran his tongue along his lower lip, eyes focused on Mycroft's lips, letting their breath mingle for a moment before speaking. "Shut up."

Mycroft smirked. "As you wish."

A few moments later, Lestrade almost regretted his insistence on Mycroft's silence. Mycroft refused to release his arms, and no matter how close their lips came to touching, he refused to give Lestrade the satisfaction of full contact. He left a series of bright-red marks along Lestrade's neck, from his jawline to his collarbone. Frustrated, Lestrade squirmed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Incapable of moving most anything else, he ground his hips against Mycroft's, feeling smug when he heard a hitch in Mycroft's breath.

"So...impatient." Mycroft released his arms, still pressed flush against him. When their lips found contact once more, Lestrade felt Mycroft slide his fingers through his hair, balling them into fists. His moan allowed Mycroft entrance to his mouth, and the older Holmes took quick advantage of the opportunity. Lestrade unbuttoned that awful, inconvenient suit jacket with a fury that matched the pace of their lips, stripping it off before making quick work of the tie and shirt underneath. It seemed that Mycroft did, indeed, work out more than Lestrade would have previously thought.

Just as Mycroft began to relieve Lestrade of his clothing, a knocking sounded at the door. "Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, you have an important call."

Lestrade groaned, feeling a bit of the lust-induced haze lift. He should have expected such an interruption, as the large grandfather clock in the room showed that it was actually already past five o'clock. Even if it had been earlier, Mycroft still would have been on duty. Mycroft was always on duty.

Mycroft didn't appear to be any happier with the interruption. He begrudgingly stepped away from the wall, retrieving his clothes from the floor. "Give me a moment." Lestrade had never heard him more irritated—even when he was less than thrilled with something that Sherlock had done. It gave his ego a bit of a boost to know that he could be involved in causing Mycroft that degree of perturbation.

"I...best be on my way, then." He rebuttoned his shift, attempting to act as natural as he possibly could, given that he had been well on his way to shagging Mycroft Holmes in a government building.

"Greg."

How Mycroft could compose himself so quickly, Lestrade didn't understand. He was amused, however, by the fact that the other man would have to find some way to cover his neck in order to avoid arousing suspicion. All that Lestrade had to do was tug on his scarf.

"Dinner. Tonight." It wasn't a request; it was a demand—one with which Lestrade was happy to comply. Mycroft raised his brows, another smirk settling on his lips. "I will see to it that I receive no important calls tonight."

As he left, Lestrade couldn't help grinning like an idiot. He had a dinner date with Mycroft Holmes that, more likely than not, wouldn't include much dinner. Had he known about Mycroft's feelings, he would've almost gotten himself killed a long time ago.

Some things were worth almost dying for.